


An impossible task

by ReadingVictoria8102



Category: Class (TV 2016)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-08-22 09:10:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16595042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReadingVictoria8102/pseuds/ReadingVictoria8102
Summary: Matteusz is a theif.Quill is an ex-soldier.Tanya is ruthless.Ram feels guilt.April is a warrior.Charlie has lost everything.And now they have to fulfil an impossible task, before they're either arrested or die from a plague.What could go wrong?





	1. Charlie

**Author's Note:**

> ...Please be nice!

'How much do you have?'

Charles swallowed. After weeks of walking surrounded by silence, with nothing but his rapid breathing, his own footsteps and adrenaline to keep him company, the noises and harsh lights of the pub left him feeling disorientated. His heart was pounding frighteningly fast, his hands shaking so violently he was close to dropping the little money he had. Crowded places such as these had always made him anxious - add that to his exhaustion, grief and paranoia, and he was left feeling horribly light headed. He wondered if he'd faint.

The man was growing impatient. 'Well?' He snapped. 'Are you deaf or somethin? I said, how much do you have?'  
Charles flinched, and held out his coins with one trembling hand. The man inspected them, and then regarded him suspiciously.  
'You've got a lot there. How'd _you_ come by so much money?'  
Charles straightened, desperately trying to act braver than he felt, and ignored the question. 'Is there enough for the room?'  
The man narrowed his eyes, but nodded slowly, taking the coins. 'Yeah, and for a drink too. What'll it be?'  
He shook his head slowly as the room began to sway, gripping the table for support. He was dehydrated, he could guess that, and slightly feverish. 'Just water. I'm sorry, could I have the key?'  
The man raise an eyebrow, but pushed over the water, dropping the key in his palm. 'Don't stay long,' he warned. 'Or else the Plague'll catch you.'

A plague? A _plague?_

Charles nodded warily, and had begun to turn around when the man called after him.  
'Hey, you need to tell us your name if you're staying here.'  
He hesitated.  
He needed a new name. Charles was too formal, too _royal_ , and no-one could know who he was. But then again, it was all he had left of his former life, his home.

He supposed he could tweak it.

'Charlie,' he said, clearing his throat. 'My name is Charlie.'  
                            ...  
Charlie sank into a seat in the corner of the pub, sick to his stomach.  
A plague. A _plague_. Brilliant.  
He buried his head in his hands, wishing his head would stop pounding.  
He'd left one city ridden with death, only to enter another.  
A tear slipped down his cheek.  
He wasn't safe.  
                            ...  
When Charlie had left the city of Rhodia, everyone was already dead. He would never have left otherwise; he was a prince, and had a duty to his family and his city. But ever since the Shadow Kin had attacked and wiped out the population in just over a day, the city was no longer safe; and Charlie, who had somehow escaped death, wasn't stupid enough to think he could continue to survive now he was - for the first time in his life - completely alone in the world, especially in a city still swarming with Shadow Kin. So it wasn't even that he wanted to leave Rhodia - quite the opposite in fact. He had loved his home. Before the attack, Rhodia had been a beautiful city, more beautiful than anyone could possibly imagine. But now it was dark, destroyed, and filled with death. He _had_ to leave.

But leaving had been hard. In doing so, he was saying goodbye to the place he had lived for eighteen years, to his family, to all the people he'd known - not _friends_ , he didn't have any, but servants, anyone he'd even come into contact with - even though it was all already gone. He'd never really experienced death before, and now he had the loss of an entire city weighing on his shoulders. Grief was new and strange and horrible; it etched into his heart and was a constant presence, unforgiving, unwavering. He couldn't sleep, he couldn't eat, he could hardly summon the energy to take a single step. In many ways, he felt as if he'd died with them.  
                           ...  
He struggled to catch his breath. He didn't want to be here, in the loud, busy place, were everyone seemed so _alive_ , even though they _were_ all in danger of a plague - but this place had a room, with a roof over his head, which, after weeks out in the cold being battered by the elements, was something he clearly needed.

Charlie was unaware of how long he'd been sitting there, trying not to pass out, when suddenly he felt someone brush against him, ever so gently, but enough to make his head snap up. His eyes fell on a boy - tall, but not old - pushing his way through the crowd quickly.

Too quickly. Charlie reached into his pocket, even though he already knew he'd find it empty.

He sat there, in such disbelief he almost could have burst out laughing.  
He'd escaped a massacre that his family, his people, had all fallen victim to, had fled to another city where he was likely to die from a plague, and now he'd been _pick pocketed?_

No.

He stumbled to his feet, breathing shallowly, and pushed his way through the crowd, filled with a determination he hadn't felt in a long while. He had already lost everything.  
He wasn't about to lose his money.


	2. Matteusz

'How'd _you_ come by so much money?'

Matteusz's ears pricked up.

Discreetly, he glanced over to where a boy, looking no older than himself, was standing looking utterly petrified. In his palm were a small heap of coins; how much he couldn't tell from here, but enough to make the barman suspicious. There were a lot of thieves around here, although Matteusz didn't know why he suspected _this_ boy of being one. He wasn't entirely sure why, but he couldn't look less like a thief if he tried. He seemed too...

He watched as the boy straightened his shoulders in a clear effort to appear taller, making nervous but steady eye contact with the barman, as he said in a clear, well-pronounced voice, 'Is there enough for the room?'

...Posh. He seemed too posh.

Matteusz didn't bother eavesdropping on the rest of the conversation, despite his internal curiosity; it wasn't important to him. What mattered was that this boy had money, and apparently, quite a bit of it. Matteusz needed it, badly; he hadn't brought anything back in a few days now, and he knew Quill was growing impatient with him. It was getting too cold to be turned to the streets.

Matteusz carefully kept an eye on the boy for fifteen minutes, watching as he sat down in the corner of the room and promptly buried his head in his hands. He looked exhausted, and slightly ill. He hoped he wasn't a plague carrier.

He waited an extra five minutes for luck, before finally rising from his seat and approaching the boy at an angle where he wouldn't see him coming. The bar was packed tonight, with people flooding in to escape the cold, so it would be easy for Matteusz to get close to him. In a crowd like this, he shouldn't be suspicious of someone bumping into him - not that he'd notice anyway. Matteusz had a gift for pick pocketing.

As he drew closer, the boy suddenly glanced up, and Matteusz noticed something that made his breath catch, something almost enough to stop him in his tracks.

The boy was impossibly sad.

More than sad, even; he was grief-stricken. He was _drowning_ in sadness; Matteusz could see it in the blank, lifelessness of his eyes, in the dark circles beneath them, in the rapid rise and fall of his chest, and in the way his hands were shaking violently against the table.

Matteusz knew the kinds of things that created that grief. He knew that look; he had _worn_ that look, and on this boy it was so open, and so raw, that he felt like he was being stabbed - from both familiarity and pity. He almost wanted to stop, to sit with him, to find out what had gone so wrong in his life.

He almost didn't want to rob him.

Almost.

He took a deep breath, closing the distance between himself and the boy. He gently bumped into him, took what he needed, and began quickly pushing his way through the crowd.

Matteusz was sorry for him, really, he was. He sympathised, and he didn't _want_ to take anything more from him, but this was a matter of survival. And he _needed_ to survive. This boy would understand, if he knew.

These were the lies Matteusz could tell himself when he was desperate enough.

                           ...  
He burst out into the night air, the temperature change enough to make him gasp, and began walking briskly away from the pub - not running, that would look too suspicious, but quickly enough that he wasn't loitering. He felt almost giddy with relief; he was safe, now, for a couple of nights at least. He'd been stealing for Quill for a long time, but that didn't necessarily mean she would hesitate to throw him out if he stopped being useful to her, and he didn't have anywhere else to go.

He was so lost in his thoughts that at first, he didn't hear the thud of footsteps behind him. He quickened his pace slightly, hoping he was being paranoid and that the footsteps belonged to a random passerby. But when they grew louder and faster to match his pace, Matteusz knew he was being followed.

He groaned inwardly; this was the last thing he needed.

He suddenly broke into a run, diving down an alleyway he knew was a shortcut, hoping his abruptness would be enough to lose his pursuer. If not, the road here was uneven, enough to trip up anyone running down it in the dark who were unfamiliar with it. Sure enough, the footsteps pounding behind him disappeared, and Matteusz began to relax. He was a fast runner, so on the rare occasions he was caught, like tonight, he was always able to outrun people; it was partly what made him such a good thief.

And his brains, apparently, was one of the reasons why he was not, as Matteusz quickly realised when he was tackled to the ground by the person following him - who, apparently, had run to the other end of the alley to wait for him to emerge. They both collapsed to the ground with such force that both were left winded and, in Matteusz's case, dizzy.

As he tried to catch his breath, the other person scrambled to his feet, and, clutching at an alarmingly large rock, demanded, 'Give me my money!'

Matteusz glanced up in disbelief. Ten minutes ago, the boy he'd stolen the money from hadn't looked _capable_ of running, and now not only was he demanding he hand over his property, but was _threatening_ him with a _rock_? He wondered, with a vague interest, how hard he'd hit his head.

He staggered to his feet, clutching the small bag of money to his chest protectively. 'I can't. I need it.'

'I need it more!' The boy pleaded, and Matteusz was again hit with pity as he saw how desperate the boy was. He avoided eye contact, knowing that if he looked him in the eye he'd cave, and said firmly, 'You paid for a room back there, _and_ a pretty decent one. I don't even have _that_.'

'But it's _my_ money!'

'And with the amount you carry with you, I'm sure you have a lot more!'

They were silent for a moment, both unsure of what move the other would make. Matteusz briefly contemplated just pushing past him, but the sight of the rock he was still uncertainly wielding stopped him.

Finally, looking slightly pained, the boy said, 'Fine. How about we split it?'

Matteusz blinked; he certainly hadn't been expecting that. ' _Split_ it?'

The boy shrugged. 'Well, I need it, and apparently you need it too, so badly you stole it from me. It seems only logical to share it.'

 _God_ , this was the weirdest day of his _life_. Most people in this boy's situation would hit him over the head with the rock and take back what belonged to them, but this one was attempting to _negotiate_? Matteusz was surprised at how oddly pleased this made him, and again, this was nearly enough to make him stop and do as he suggested. But before he could do so, a thought struck him.

The boy had felt Matteusz pick pocket him when most people hadn't. He'd chased after him, which showed courage, _and_ that he was fast; and had managed to intercept him, proving he was a quick thinker.

And, as Matteusz had already noticed, he was desperate, and sad, and _lonely_.

The boy shifted, looking slightly uncomfortable. 'Why are you looking at me like that?'

Matteusz ignored the question, and instead asked him a different one. 'What's your name?'

The boy still looked uncertain, but replied, 'Charl - Charlie,' almost as if he were correcting himself.

'Well, Charlie,' he said, 'I'll make you a deal. I'll give you your money, but you have to come with me.'

Charlie instantly looked suspicious. 'Come with you where?'

'To where I live. And you can meet the person who I stole your money for.'

Charlie hesitated, and Matteusz smiled confidently.

'Do we have a deal?'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow look at me actually writing another chapter


	3. Quill

Quill was not entirely sure how she had began harbouring orphaned children in the attic above her workshop, but she believed it had started about five years ago when a thirteen-year-old had tried to steal some metal from her when her back was turned. He'd made a run for it, obviously, but he was weak from lack of food and sleep, and she'd caught him just before he'd reached the city centre - only to find that the metal, a precious piece of steel that was crucial for her work, had fallen through a hole in his pocket. Panicked, the boy had promised he'd steal something back for her, something valuable, if only she wouldn't report him; and Quill wasn't left with much choice other than to agree. After all, he wasn't to know that she _couldn't_ report him. She'd returned to the workshop, not expecting to ever see or hear from him again.

But the boy surprised her. Within a day he'd returned, _and_ with a bag of jewellery; enough for her to pawn and buy back the metal she'd lost. From then on, an agreement was made: Quill couldn't enter the city centre - she wasn't even supposed to be living where she was, in the outskirts - so he would go for her, and steal things that could be traded for material for her work or pawned for money so they didn't starve. In return, she gave him a roof over his head, and - most nights - food. But here was the deal: if he didn't uphold his end of the bargain, neither would she.

For a while, it was just Quill and the boy, Matteusz, and their little system worked. It turned out Matteusz was good at stealing, and would come back with something valuable almost every day to keep them both going. And to her surprise, Quill found that she didn't mind the company; it kept her from going insane. After all, it was easy to lose it when you only had your own thoughts for company, and _memories_. So many memories, some of them good, most of them bad. Whenever she'd remember, she'd feel fury growing in the pit of her stomach; fury that the one thing she was good at, the one thing that had given her life _purpose_ , had been unjustly ripped from her.

So yes, having Matteusz around to poke at things and ask seemingly endless questions was a distraction.

About six months since their deal had begun, Matteusz had returned empty handed, but with a girl walking nervously behind him. She was deathly pale, and every step she took she sagged with exhaustion. She was practically skin and bone.

_She's a thief too_ , Matteusz had simply said.

What had followed was a small _conversation_ , which mainly consisted of Quill _insisting_ that they didn't have room for her, and Matteusz completely ignoring this and pleading. _Please, she's hungry_ , and _please, she's all alone._

Maybe it was because she knew what it was like to be alone, or because no matter how cold she was, she wasn't cold enough to turn this girl away; but Quill finally gave in. _If she doesn't steal, she goes, same as you_ , she'd said, although she was fairly certain that the case would have to be drastic for her to do that. _A true warrior does not abandon another when they are down_. Still, they didn't have to know that.

After that, Quill supposed it was inevitable; once Matteusz found out that he could bring more orphans back with him, he did just that, _and_ he began training them to make them better thieves. Quill emptied out the attic - a task which had consisted of her throwing almost the entire contents of the room out the window, whilst the children watched with a mixture of nervousness and amusement - and moved them all upstairs where they were out of sight, and gave them as many blankets as she could get her hands on to keep them semi-warm.

They didn't all stay. Some left for a while and came back when things got too rough for them; some left and never came back. And some - like Matteusz and that first girl he had brought back - had stayed for the past five years, and had never left.  
                           ...  
Charlie and Matteusz walked in slightly awkward silence, the former still unsure as to why he'd agreed to this. Sure, the boy seemed nice enough - he'd given him his money back, at least, and he hadn't tried to attack him - but Charlie didn't _know_ him. He was a thief, which meant he was untrustworthy, and for all Charlie knew, he could be leading him to an even more secluded street so he could murder him. He fleetingly wondered if he would even mind.

On the other hand, this could be an opportunity, for the first time in weeks, to _not_ be alone. Charlie had almost forgotten what it was like to have company, and to talk to people. Back home -

He forced the thought out of his head, almost violently. He had to stop thinking about Rhodia; it was only making him sad.

His train of thought was interrupted by the boy clearing his throat awkwardly. 'You know, I'd be rather happy if you dropped that.'

Charlie glanced down at the rock he was still carrying. It was heavy, but he'd refused to go anywhere with a stranger defenceless.

The boy persisted. 'I'm not going to hurt you.'  
  


_'I_ don't know that.'

The boy sighed, and Charlie felt a small pang of guilt, although he wasn't sure why. Maybe it was because the boy had surprisingly pretty eyes.

He swallowed, trying to remember how to make causal conversation. Unfortunately, his knowledge was limited to the weather, which he couldn't exactly use at midnight, and general how are you's, which he guessed wouldn't have the best answer after he tackled him to the ground and waved a heavy rock over his head. Finally he settled on, 'what's your name?'

The boy seemed slightly surprised to find Charlie talking to him, but replied 'Matteusz.'  
'Matteusz?'  
'It's polish.'  
'Oh,' Charlie said, and then, almost absentmindedly, 'I like it.'  
Matteusz looked pleased. 'Thank you,' he said, and then, quietly, 'I like Charlie.'  
                           ...  
_So_ , Quill thought, looking at the line of twenty or so teenagers all holding their days' worth of stolen goods, _Matteusz has done it again_. She stopped in front of him and the new boy, who she could tell was trying - and failing - to hide his nerves, and waited for Matteusz to explain.

'His name's Charlie,' he said simply. 'He caught me, and he's a fast runner. He's alone,' he added, almost as an afterthought.

Charlie's hands were trembling, but he lifted his head and made shaky but steady eye contact. He had courage at least, which Quill approved of.  
  


'Alright,' she said finally, 'you can stay.' She glanced at Matteusz. 'You're slipping, Matteusz.'

He winced, but nodded. He seemed relieved. Quill had told herself she wouldn't turn anyone away unless the situation was drastic, but it was quickly becoming so. The plague had made it difficult for the thieves to steal from the city centre, where the sickness was thriving, and more of them had been returning home empty handed. Quill _knew_ Matteusz was good, and she knew that this was the reason he'd been struggling lately; _and_ she knew he had nowhere else to go - but she wasn't sure how much longer she could afford to keep someone who wasn't contributing.

'Go upstairs,' she addressed to the rest of them. 'The food is ready. Charlie, stay here.'

They all scrambled upstairs, pushing past each other to be the first up, and Matteusz followed after giving Charlie a reassuring glance.

Quill sat down, and motioned for Charlie to do the same. 'So,' she said, 'what's your story, then? Because everyone who comes here has one.'

Charlie went pale, but shrugged. Quill raised an eyebrow.

'Alright,' she said, 'I won't make you tell me. No family, though? Are they dead?'  
At the mention of his family, Charlie looked impossibly sad. He didn't say anything, but Quill took it as a yes.

'Alright. Go upstairs with the others.'

Charlie hesitated for a moment, and then went, looking cautious. When he was gone, Quill exhaled, caught in a memory of raids and fighting and death.  
He looked familiar, for some reason.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is a LOT later than I originally wanted it to be...sorry. I have a lot of coursework going on at the moment, and for the past few weeks it's left me very stressed and overwhelmed, so I haven't had the time or energy to write this. I've finished for Christmas now though, so hopefully I can update this more regularly for the next couple of weeks.
> 
> BUT, I did get five university offers...somehow :)


End file.
